


live forever (hold you longer)

by jediseagull



Series: love ain't nothing [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, ONE OF THESE DAYS WE'RE GONNA GET MOTH'S BACKSTORY BUT IT IS NOT THIS DAY, Psychic Wolves, TODAY WE GET FEELINGS AND SEX, minor cameos from various Lemieux family members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 23:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11001384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/pseuds/jediseagull
Summary: They’re not doing anythingwrong, really. Here in the NHL, guys mess around outside the heat-room and it’s no big deal because it’s convenient, because it brings them closer. Because, as Colby once said,why the fuck not. Zhenya’s heard all the reasons under the sun.Rational or not, what he's doing with Sid is...pretty weird.





	live forever (hold you longer)

The next morning, he drives to the nearest Rite Aid to buy condoms and lube. He leaves Varya at the Gonchars’, and he’s got a baseball cap on, and he’s almost entirely sure the bored middle-aged woman at the register doesn’t recognize him, but it’s a relief to walk out of the pharmacy with his purchases in a discreet plastic bag. When he’s safely behind the locked doors of his car, he feels a bit like a kid who’s gotten away with sneaking extra sweets after dinner, triumphant and a little guilty.

Which is stupid. They’re not doing anything _wrong_ , really. Here in the NHL, guys fuck outside the heat-room and it’s no big deal because it’s convenient, because it brings them closer. Because, as Colby once said, _why the fuck not_. Zhenya’s heard all the reasons under the sun. 

Rational or not, he still feels weird when he gets home. The condoms can go between his mattress and the box spring, but he has to find a place to hide the lube that won’t lead to any awkward questions. Seryozha and Ksenya are good about giving him his privacy, of course, and they’ve told Natasha not to go in without asking first, but she’s three. He’s had more naps abbreviated by high-pitched demands to watch afternoon cartoons than he can count. 

Then he remembers that Natasha’s not here, and neither are Seroyzha and Ksenya, and if he wants to leave a bottle of lube on his bedside table like an invitation, the only person who will know about it is himself. 

And….Sid, if - when - he comes by again. So they can fuck. 

God. Because that’s a thing they’re doing now. He’s dated, sure, but this is so far out of his practical experience that he’s basically flying blind. Keeping the brand-new bottle of lube out might make him look desperate.

Varya, who he knows for a fact is face-first in a box of Cheerios right now, nevertheless manages to send him a crisp image from yesterday evening: his own dopey smile when Sid had grinned up at him, flushed and tousle-haired, and said, “I’ll see you soon?” In her memory, the smell of sex - still present despite their copious use of fragrance-free soap during cleanup - is almost overwhelmed by a musky flood of new arousal. While he’s still grimacing from that, she gives him another image on the heels of the first: Moth, waiting patiently behind Sid’s knees as they’d said goodbye. 

_Not helping_ , he thinks snappishly back, but it’s clear that a) he doesn’t _need_ any help making himself look desperate, and b) it probably doesn’t matter where he puts the damn lube. Varya can keep his thoughts private from the pack sense, but she can’t stop Moth’s nose any more than she could stop her own. 

He throws himself onto his bed with a groan, pushing his burning face into the duvet. Experience has taught him that cereal or no cereal, this is guaranteed to summon Varya from wherever she is in the house, and sure enough, he hears the distant click of nails on hardwood, then the rhythmic thump-thump-thump as she bounds up the stairs. 

His entire ribcage feels like it’s compressed under her weight when she sprawls across his back, but she must not be entirely fed up with whatever pathetic self-pity he’s leaking through the bond. If she was, she’d have jumped on him instead of the mattress before lying down; he’s had a couple hundred pounds of wolf land paws-first on his kidneys before, and it’s not fun.

“Oof,” Zhenya says anyways. To inhale afterwards takes effort. That’s kind of the point, though; normally it only takes a few minutes of being aggressively napped on before all he’s thinking about is making sure he’s still breathing. 

This time, his mind won’t stop racing.

 _See you soon_ , he thinks. _Ha_. Varya being pregnant doesn’t mean Zhenya himself can slack off on his training for the rest of summer. He’s reaching the end of the post-playoffs recovery period where he can justify working out in a home gym rather than the fully-equipped Penguins’ facilities. And hell, even if he could, Mario had called him last night to offer his own congratulations on the litter-to-be and to invite him to dinner this weekend. He’s going to see Sid _everywhere_ ; Sid and his stupid hazel eyes and ridiculous laugh and solid, bow-legged body. 

_And Moth_ , Varya reminds him. Like Zhenya needs to be reminded of how Sid’s careful public mask only vanishes when he’s defending his brother. Of how Zhenya used to watch interviews sometimes, and how Sid’s eyes blazed whenever someone implied Moth was a liability for his silence.

The duvet does an admirable job of muffling his frustrated scream.

He gets himself out of bed eventually - or rather, Varya does, when she insists with teeth that if he’s not going to come downstairs and make them both a proper lunch that she’s going to drag him to the kitchen by his ankle. Afterwards he plays whatever pleasantly mindless first-person shooter game is already in the console until they’ve both digested their steaks - his medium-rare, hers bloody - and then, because it’s cool but not actively raining, he chases Varya outside for a run. Between the Steelers, Pirates, and Penguins, there are enough athletes in Pittsburgh that nobody gives Varya more than a subtle second glance trying to identify who they are, and they put a neat six mile loop behind them without any problems. He hits the weights feeling a little more in his own head, and by the time he’s showered and in a clean set of clothes, it’s practically dinnertime.

Hate-watching the Senators’ game gets him through the rest of the evening, but the Devils aren’t playing well enough to steal the series back despite their late goal in the third. He turns it off before the handshake line. The anger and disappointment of losing is manageable, now - just not so manageable that he’s able to see them celebrate _again_. 

He crawls into bed not long after that, Varya curling into her customary spot facing the window after a few thoughtful circles. Slights don’t last, with wolves. Grudges are fought over, settled, and forgotten. It’s a good skill. Maybe with time, his anger won’t be the only one of his emotions that’s under control. 

Of course, he doesn’t get time, because Sid keeps. Texting. Him. 

The worst part is that he’s not even asking to meet up, Zhenya thinks mournfully. No, Sid has the gall to start conversations about utterly mundane things - how he’s navigating Pittsburgh without Seryozha there to translate, what he’s been watching on TV, whether he’ll be joining the training schedule Chris has set up for guys who are in town over the summer, all of which leave Zhenya very little outlet for the gross and overwhelming feelings he gets whenever Sid checks in, making sure Zhenya’s okay without ever asking the question. 

Most of those gross and overwhelming feelings are in his heart. Not all of them.

At least the lube won’t be brand-new the next time Sid comes over.

After careful consideration, he jerks off Friday morning before his workout, then again in the afternoon,. He has to take two very thorough showers, but it’ll hopefully be enough to keep his libido in check so that he doesn’t act - or smell - like an idiot at dinner. Objectively he knows that Victoire has had several litters, and Mario’s been in and around professional hockey for half his life - he’s definitely no stranger to what goes on between teammates inside or outside the heat-room. On the other hand: there is no way in heaven or hell that he’s going to even think about fucking Sid in Mario Lemieux’s house. Because, again, it’s _Mario Lemieux’s house_. 

Sid opens the door when he knocks. In a moment of déjà vu, nerves and the fluttering realization that _he’s really here, this is really happening_ hit him at the same time as Sid’s lighting strike of a smile. 

“Hi,” he says stupidly. 

“Hey, glad you made it. Those are pretty.” Sid nods at the bouquet of flowers cradled in his arms. 

“For Nathalie,” Zhenya supplies. “Smell best.” To Varya’s nose, anyways, so he hopes Victoire won’t mind them either. 

Sid leans in and sniffs before laughing. “I don’t know why I’d bother, they just smell like flowers to me. Come on, everyone’s just hanging out while we wait for the lasagna to finish baking."

As promised, the whole family has congregated in the living room; he gives the flowers to Nathalie and gets a kiss on the cheek in return, shakes Mario’s hand, and tries not to seem too anxious when Varya immediately picks her way across the tangle of Lemieux kids playing video games to greet Victoire, not an inch of submissiveness in the lines of her body. 

That’s….something they’re going to have to talk about, and from the look Mario gives him, they both know it. 

_I hadn’t wanted to say with everything that was happening during the season - the lawsuit, and then her heat, and then playoffs...but we’ve left it late_ , Mario thinks, rue tinging his mental voice. 

They have. Varya already thinks of Moth as hers. She thinks of the pack as hers, and it’s not, yet, not truly. 

At the end of the day, hockey is a sport of two halves. The Penguins drafted him as much because the pack needed a new queen wolf as because the team needed a new first-line center. If Varya takes over from Victoire, it binds Zhenya to Pittsburgh for the rest of his career. To Pittsburgh, and to Sid. 

But he already knew that; he made that choice when he hid in an airport bathroom last summer, when he called JP instead of buying a ticket back to Russia. He made the choice, and Varya made the choice, and when he remembers that it becomes easier to breathe and smile and promise Mario, _it’s okay_. 

From the kitchen, something beeps loudly. “That’s the lasagna,” Nathalie says. “Alright, TV off, we’ve got three hungry wolves to feed so I don’t want to hear any arguing about whose turn it is. And separate bowls, please. Varvara, do you like venison?” 

Varya does, and she likes being asked directly even better. _Very polite_ , she thinks approvingly, as the kids trudge downstairs to the cellar, each of them carrying a massive stainless steel bowl. 

Polite, Zhenya realizes, but tactful, too - not just for addressing her question to Varya, but to making sure there can be no slight at feeding one wolf before the others. If there’s going to be a reckoning today, it’s not going to be before dinner.

Sid and Mario have already vanished into the kitchen, and Nathalie absolutely refuses to hear his offer to help, ushering him to a seat at the table. “Everything’s all set up, I only need two other pairs of hands for the wine and salad,” she says firmly, and pats his shoulder reassuringly when he tries to protest. “See, here they come.” The salad goes on the table, but Mario pours him a glass of red as the kids come thundering up the stairs calling for the wolves and laughs when Zhenya swivels in his seat, trying to make sure Varya isn’t going to knock any of them over in her hurry. 

“They’ll be fine. Some unspoken rule about puppies, I’m guessing - I don’t think I’ve ever met a wolf who’s so much as bumped them on accident.” 

“Wash up, please,” Nathalie calls, and there’s a chorus of groans from the other room. 

They all make it to the table eventually, and the food is as good as it was last time. He says so, and then adds, “I see why Sid stay here so long,” slanting a teasing smirk across the table. “Too lazy to cook own food, Sid?” 

“I cook,” Sid says half-heartedly, like either of them can do more than scramble eggs and boil water for pasta. 

“Barely,” Stephanie says. “You make sandwiches.” 

“That’s more than you.” Austin jumps in, frowning. “And besides, Sid makes good sandwiches.”

“You’re only saying that because he lets you put chocolate chips in your PB&J whenever he babysits,” Alexa retorts, and then they’re off. 

“For the record,” Sid says awkwardly. “I don’t let him have chocolate chips _every_ time I babysit.” 

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” Nathalie says. “Now, anyone still arguing at the table ten seconds from now is going to have to help me clean up-”

Because she clearly means it, the kids clamp their jaws shut in unison before politely excusing themselves. “I’ll help,” Sid volunteers, and disappears with an armful of flatware into the kitchen. 

“I think the wolves went out to the back garden,” Nathalie says meaningfully, and then she takes the remaining stack of dishes and follows Sid.

Mario sighs. _Shall we?_

It’s not exactly early in the evening, but the sun has only just slipped over the horizon. Enough light shines through the windows of the house that he can see the three dark shapes moving over the grass when Mario’s opened the glass doors out to the pool deck.

 _I’m glad she likes it here_ , Mario thinks. 

_Not just her_. 

Mario’s response isn’t so much a word as a feeling - that he’s glad, and no small part of him relieved. “Sid can do a lot,” he says out loud. “And Moth is as much a part of this pack as any other wolf in it, but he - they - can’t do everything.” 

“I know,” Zhenya says. _I’m here now_. 

“I know.” He laughs, quietly. “And so does Victoire, though she doesn’t like to admit it. We can’t be there the way you can.” 

Moth trots out of the grass, panting, to sit a little ways off on the concrete. In the shadows, a wolf snarls. 

_That’s -_

“Wait,” Mario says, still quiet. Varya and Victoire are circling each other, hackles raised all down their spines.

Varya lunges first.

The only thing that keeps him from doing something incredibly stupid is Mario’s hand on his arm, holding him in place, and Zhenya _knows_ you don’t get between fighting wolves unless you’re willing to risk losing a hand but that’s his sister, and she’s angry, and he needs to - he needs to -

Glass shatters somewhere inside the house, but Zhenya doesn’t even blink. They’re all over each other, snarling and snapping, and he can barely tell which one is which because they’re moving so fast, a furious knot of claws and teeth. Victoire is smaller - barely - but deceptively fast, a dark sable blur as she springs away and then closes in again at Varya’s flank. He can feel it when she grabs hold; Mario winces when Varya twists and bulls chest-first into Victoire’s side, using her weight to knock the other wolf over, her own bared teeth locking into the folds of skin and fur at Victoire’s neck. 

He tastes copper, and realizes he’s bitten his own lip. 

Victoire struggles for a moment more, and then, without warning, sighs and goes still. Varya shakes her once, and when she lets go there’s no blood smeared around her mouth. Whatever monsters humans and trellwolves first bonded to fight are long gone from this world. Though the wolves remain, the pack is no longer a matter of life and death. Varya lifts her head, and just like that, it’s over.

Mario releases his arm. Zhenya hadn’t realized how hard he’d been squeezing until the blood rushes back. 

_Do you_ , he starts, and then hesitates. _Mario?_

Victoire stands and walks over to her brother as Mario looks at him, and that’s a worry Zhenya didn’t even know he had lifted. They’re still _there_ , present in the overarching pack sense that binds the NHL together and in the more immediate - oh.

“Victoire is Moth’s mother?”

“Grandmother, actually,” Mario says, and Zhenya’s not sure if he’s reading amusement through the pack sense or off Mario’s expression. “Moth’s mother Kala is from her third litter.” He looks down at his sister, fondly scrubbing a hand over her ears while she leans into his fingers. “It was harder the first time we did this. She wasn’t - neither of us were ready yet. But it feels less like leaving, this time. How are you holding up?”

Zhenya thinks, _Sid?_

 _She’s okay, right?_ , Sid thinks back immediately, clearer than it’s ever been despite the physical distance. _I could tell when -_

_She’s okay. They’re both okay._

Relief rushes through the link. 

“I’m good,” he says carefully. “It’s - strong.”

Mario laughs. “Yeah, it is. You’ll get used to it, and I promise it’ll be easier to build the pack wolf by wolf at the end of the summer when the time comes. Varya’s more than capable.”

That, at least, he knows how to deal with. “Thank you.” 

“In the meantime, if you want to practice being around other wolves, someone usually organizes a mock-hunt once every week or two so they can burn off some energy - I think Sid generally goes, and I’m sure he’d be happy to take you with him.”

“Thanks,” Zhenya says again. This is a lot. He’s not sure how putting himself in a situation with a bunch of English-speakers and Sid as the only familiar face will help, but Varya’s picked up on his thoughts and is already dancing around like a puppy at the thought of all that excitement, so he already knows he’ll inevitably wind up going. 

Mario claps him on the shoulder. “Ready to go back inside? I don’t know about you, but I could use some dessert.” 

Zhenya doesn’t talk much as they help themselves to the lemon bars Nathalie’s made, or as he finally waves goodbye and drives back home. Neither Sid nor Mario push him, and Nathalie is too used to having wolfbrothers around to mind his spacing out. 

It feels like it should be harder, and maybe it will be when everyone’s back in Pittsburgh and he’s helping Varya deal with two dozen wolves instead of a handful. 

_It won’t_ , she thinks confidently, and wriggles up the bed to lie half on top of him, her head across his collarbone. _We’ve got this_.

 _Do we?_ Zhenya wonders, and hopes.

And maybe they do. In the next 24 hours, the only real change is that Sid ramps up the texting. He doesn’t have to, anymore - Varya is head bitch, and if Moth or his brother want to talk to them, all they have to do is reach out to the pack sense, because Varya is getting her revenge for his melodrama and refuses to close the connection. But no matter how much stronger the link between them is, whatever keeps Moth quiet hasn’t changed with Varya’s status.

 _there’s no scheduled hunt this weekend_ , Sid sends on Sunday morning. _but if you don’t have other plans we could drive out to the nearest wolfrun for a few hours?_

 _Before noon, Sunday is for sleeping_ , Zhenya thinks back grumpily. 

Which is not a no. _see you at 12:30, then._ Even by text, he sounds way too smug for Zhenya’s peace of mind. Varya must be rubbing off on him. 

It’s closer to one by the time they actually set off, and nearly two when they reach the massive wooded area that’s been claimed as a wolfrun. It technically falls under state park jurisdiction, as Sid informs him when Zhenya shrugs off the lack of a parking permit. It’s not like he can’t pay the fine. 

The lack of proper shoes is a bigger problem, because when Sid had said _wolfrun_ , Zhenya had pictured a sort of giant dog park instead of an honest-to-god forest. 

“There are trails,” Sid says when Zhenya points this out. He eyes Zhenya’s flip-flops dubiously, then the trail marker which indicates a section that is, at best, possibly slightly less plant-infested than everything else around it. “...Or we can stay in the car.” 

“I can go,” Zhenya says stubbornly, which explains how four hours later he finds himself grimacing at the blisters that have formed and then popped all over the bottom of his feet. 

“You should wash those off,” Sid says, zipping up his jeans as he comes out of the first-floor bathroom. Varya and Moth, having happily exhausted themselves, stayed awake long enough to be hosed off before collapsing in a pile of towels Zhenya threw over the carpet, and Sid’s nose wrinkles as he gets a fresh waft of the wet-dog smell pervading the living room. “You’ve got a tub upstairs?”

“Yeah,” Zhenya says, limping to the staircase. He can tell Sid’s hovering behind him as he hobbles up to his bathroom, but he can walk just fine on his own, thank you.

Washing his feet hurts, but it’s just pain. Coming out of the bathroom to find Sid gazing thoughtfully at the lube on his bedside table is less pain and more an uncomfortable sort of internal somersault that Zhenya doesn’t know how to describe.

“I can go if you’re tired,” Sid says, and means _do you want me to stay?_

“No,” Zhenya says. He means _yes_. 

“Come here, then,” Sid says, and his mouth is open and greedy before Zhenya’s even leaned down to kiss him. His hands ruck up Zhenya’s t-shirt, asking for it to come off. He wonders if there’s a reason Sid only touches him like this when their wolves aren’t around or awake, and then he stops wondering because holy shit, Sid’s shoving his pants down, and then doing the same to his own, and being naked in a locker room is nothing like this, Sid watching him unashamedly, Zhenya able to watch him back, both of them burning with want. For a long, drawn-out moment they just look at each other, and then Zhenya has to kiss him again. He has to touch, he _wants_ to touch, in a way that feels more honest than the blind need of Varya’s heat.

“Can I fuck you?” Sid says breathlessly minutes later, toppled back onto the bed and already in delicious disarray. Zhenya blinks, stunned. “Or not,” Sid says, grimacing. “Sorry, did that - did I make it weird?”

“Why weird?” Zhenya croaks, when it’s clear after a few seconds that Sid’s not going to offer him more of an explanation without prompting. 

“Because you have a sister,” Sid says. “I didn’t mean - if you want to fuck me instead we can do that, it’s fine -”

“No,” Zhenya says. “No, you can.” 

“Do you want me to?” Sid sounds hesitant, still, and Zhenya doesn’t like it. 

“I want,” he says, and rolls off Sid to grab the lube so he can show him exactly how much.

He prefers to get himself ready, rather than trust it to a new partner who might half-ass (ha) the job, but he spreads his legs a little farther than he normally would so that Sid can see. “Geno,” Sid breathes, reaching out to stroke one finger down his thigh as Zhenya sweats and squirms, working himself open. He shivers and pushes into the touch, a dull throb in the soles of his feet reminding him of his earlier mistake, and Sid retraces the same line with more force, then again, still avoiding Zhenya’s cock. 

“Under the mattress,” Zhenya pants, closing his eyes before he pulls his fingers out, but his muscles clench anyways, seeking something that isn’t there. God, he wants this. He hears himself breathing, heavy and desperate - feels, more than sees, Sid sit up and reach to find the condoms. He makes himself open his eyes to check that he’s not going to clobber Sid in the head when he rolls onto his hands and knees and then does so, spreading them again for stability before wiping the last of the lube against his thigh. 

A hand falls on his hip, and Zhenya cranes his neck and looks at him. “Come _on_ , Sid.”

“Bossy,” Sid says, but he’s holding himself with the other hand, and when Zhenya just huffs and drops his head back down he feels Sid press in, and in, and in _._

“Fuck,” Zhenya says. It might come out in Russian, but Sid understands him enough to wait, his hand trembling against Zhenya’s skin. It’s so different, outside of heat - their bodies are the same, and yet if asked he couldn’t have said before this instant what it felt like to have Sid’s cock inside him, the fullness of it. He couldn’t have described the way that when he nods and Sid rolls his hips it drags at every cell in his body, how he is so wholly present that he can hear Sid murmuring, “Geno, Geno,” like he can’t help himself and yet be unaware that he’s gasping himself, huge needy lungfuls that break into a cry for _more, Sid_ , _please_ because oh God, he _wants_. 

Sid’s hips snap forward at that, hard enough that Zhenya nearly falls forward. His cock slips free, making them both groan “Christ,” Sid says, and, “Sorry, sorry.” 

“Sorry for stop,” Zhenya says, and that’s almost certainly English because Sid laughs and pushes back in, leaning closer to run a hand down his stomach to his cock. 

“Can I-” 

“Yes, yes, please-”

At this new angle, Sid can’t move as much, but every shift in his body feels like an earthquake, his cock pressing right where Zhenya wants it to be when he bottoms out and catching at the ring of muscle on every stroke. It hardly matters that Sid’s hand is working at his own cock in stuttering, distracted rhythm, faltering every time Zhenya clenches down. 

“Geno,” Sid says, like a prayer or a curse, “Geno, I’m-” His hips jerk, the fronts of his thighs smacking obscenely against the back of Zhenya’s as he comes. 

“Stay,” Zhenya begs, and Sid manages to lift his head from where it’s resting, sweat-sticky between Zhenya’s shoulder blades, so he can mutter agreement into his skin. His hand moves faster now, demanding Zhenya follow him, and Zhenya swears and does, Sid’s cock still softening inside him and Sid’s palm a gentle cradle until he’s finished. He still feels the loss when Sid pulls out in a careful balancing act, one hand cupping Zhenya’s come and the other holding the base of the condom, and Zhenya tips over onto his side to watch Sid toe the door to the the bathroom open. A moment later, something hits the trashcan, and he can hear the sound of water running.

“You want a washcloth?” 

Zhenya does not. He wants to cuddle and then fall asleep with Sid by his side. “No, thanks.”

Sid comes back to the doorway and pauses. “I, uh. I think Moth’s still napping. They knocked themselves out pretty well.” 

“Ugh,” Zhenya says, and yawns. He catches the glint of triumph in Sid’s eyes and rolls his eyes. “Yes, fine, you best at sex. I be best at sleeping.” He closes his eyes and counts to ten. If Sid’s still there when he peeks - he cracks one eye open again. Sid hasn’t moved, not even to put clothes back on. He looks, suddenly, as young and uncertain as he did on the day they first met. Zhenya swallows, and says, casually, “You coming?”

“I - yes,” Sid says, and moves towards the bed, crawling awkwardly over Zhenya’s shins to lie flat on his back on the duvet. Zhenya pokes him until he lifts his hips enough that Zhenya can kick the duvet down and then tug it back up over their bare legs, and when he settles again he’s close enough that Zhenya’s outstretched hand rests on his chest, their knees bumping under the covers. 

“Goodnight,” Zhenya says authoritatively, as though he has any idea what the hell he’s doing. 

“It’s 6PM,” Sid says faintly. “We’re gonna wake up in two hours and be _starving_.”

“Good _night_ , Sid.”

“....Goodnight, Geno.”

Under his hand, Sid’s heart is beating, keeping perfect time with his own. The pulse that shakes him from the inside out could be Sid’s. Zhenya isn’t sure that he’d know to tell the difference.

He closes his eyes and sleeps.


End file.
